


twitter porn doesn't deserve a title

by Aja



Category: Inception (2010)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-10
Updated: 2011-11-10
Packaged: 2017-10-30 12:13:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/331632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aja/pseuds/Aja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames tells eager, subby little Arthur exactly how he'll take it. And then shows him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	twitter porn doesn't deserve a title

**Author's Note:**

> I come bearing yet another ill-advised drunken twitterfic. Silly pointless Arthur/Eames porn ahead. For you, Emily <3!

They're alone in the warehouse when Arthur snaps, irritable because Eames has sniped at him all day, "What the fuck's got into you?"  
  
"I've been thinking about how you'll writhe once I've got you squared away on my cock where you belong," Eames answers casually, and Arthur's breath leaves him, falls away  like it was never his own to begin with.   
  
In his shock he lets the silence go too long. Eames pushes back his chair and wanders over, his eyes fastened to Arthur's face. He looks a little quizzical, a little hesitant--which, given the words that just came out of his mouth, is ridiculous; but then so is everything about Eames. Especially his mouth.  
  
"Eames, I'm not--" Arthur starts, but Eames interrupts him with a warm hand that slides from his shoulder down to his forearm.  
  
"Why don't you admit this job will run a lot smoother if you let me give you what we both know you need, hmm?" he says. "Christ, Arthur look at you." He wraps his fingers around Arthur's forearm and squeezes. Arthur goes rigid from long-honed instincts of self-preservation. "I could get rid of all that tension," Eames murmurs. He steps in. "I could be so good for you, if you let me."   
  
And then he's tilting Arthur's chin up with his free hand, still clasping him by the arm with the other. "You need my cock in you." His lips brush against the shell of Arthur's ear, and Arthur's eyes flutter shut at the touch. "Say it."  
  
Arthur tries to remember how to breathe. "You need it thick, filling you every waking hour of the day."  
  
His fingertips are pressed beneath Arthur's pulse point. "Arthur," says Eames, voice somehow cajoling  _and_  commanding. "Do you know something, pet?" Arthur bites down hard on his trembling lip. "You bow your head just so whenever I come near," Eames says. "You wait until I've finished speaking before you tell me I'm ridiculous, but you interrupt everyone else. You know what that means, don't you?"  
  
Arthur tries to relax, tries to will his racing heartbeat to slow down and give him space to think, to register anything besides Eames' body bracketing his against the desk, hovering just far away to give him all the room Arthur suddenly doesn't want.  
  
He swallows, feeling his throat press into the line of Eames' fingertips. "Why don't you tell me, Mr. Eames?" he says. His voice is unsteady, barely functional, but Eames only laughs and slides his fingers up the curve of Arthur's throat to trace his cheekbone.   
  
"It means," he murmurs, "that you are about to get *exactly* what you want." He pulls Arthur in, closing the space between them and pressing him onto the desk.  
  
When the kiss comes, it feels like an afterthought, sweet, unhurried, and such a contrast to the growl in Eames' voice that Arthur chases after it when Eames pulls away, desperate for the hard collision he's been waiting for since the moment Eames first set his eyes on Arthur and deliberately licked his lips in the single most juvenile and arousing come-on Arthur had ever witnessed. Since then, he's seen Eames shot, beaten, dropped from a cliff, stuffed into a body bag and set on fire, thrown into a lake, and  _bayoneted_ , and through it all Eames has never stopped being infuriatingly lewd and unbearably sexy all at once. Knowing he's brilliant, watching him die every time without complaint, just makes the combination that much more lethal. Arthur has had  _enough._   
  
He squirms between Eames' arms where they bracket him on the desk and slips his hands beneath Eames' shirt, loving how warm Eames is to his touch. Eames hums in satisfaction and lets Arthur get in a little groping, and Arthur presses his luck and slips his tongue in Eames' mouth. Eames, the bastard, actually laughs into the kiss and teases him with a tangle of tongues for a few sensuous moments before he breaks away.  
  
"No," Eames says, and the order shoots straight to Arthur's cock. "Darling, I--" He pulls back and laughs again, startled and lovely, and Arthur almost can't stop a noise of desperation from escaping him. "Just a taste," Eames says. "For now. Tonight--later, when I've got you all alone with plenty of time--we'll see what we can get up to."  
  
Arthur can't get his vocal chords to work properly, so he has to convey with a glare how ludicrous is any proposal that doesn't involve Eames pushing aside sixteen infuriating jobs' worth of teasing and spreading Arthur open right this second and fucking him. But Eames just kisses him again, slow, deep, totally unfazed.   
  
"But you'll have to be very good for me, pet," he says against Arthur's lips. "Can you do that?"  
  
Arthur forces himself to stay silent, to nod. He's pressed between the desk and Eames' broad thighs, close enough to see the way Eames' pupils are dilating, the way his breath stutters when Arthur just bows his head. It's like waking from a kick. Suddenly all Arthur wants to do is make Eames do that again, and it hits him that Eames hasn't been making any of it up. Arthur's body language, his reactions, his behavior around Eames--Arthur knows he likes being dominated, & he's long been abysmally aware of the things Eames does to him--but he's never put two and two together before now.   
  
Suddenly everything adds up to Arthur being dominated  _by Eames_ , and it's like a door opens in his mind and all Arthur can do is want and want and want. "Please," he says, the word breaking out of him at last. "Please, Eames, let me--" and he's shifting closer, head dropping against Eames' shoulder. Eames runs his hand up Arthur's side.  
  
"Anything you want, Arthur," Eames murmurs. "But you have to tell me."   
  
"I want--my mouth," Arthur whispers, overwhelmed by what he wants, by what he can  _have_ , by the things he knows Eames can give him. "Let me have you, can I--"   
  
"Shh, darling,  _yes_ ," says Eames. And then he's pushing Arthur back against the workspace, spreading him flat on top of his desk, on top of his drafts & moleskines.   
  
Arthur bites out, "You plan ways of messing up my desk," before he can take it back, and Eames only laughs and straddles him. His weight creaks the desk when he shifts up, and Arthur thinks of all that solid muscle covering him and has to fight not to make noise just from the anticipation of how Eames will feel stretched out against him later.  
  
"Best not make it messier, then, hadn't you, pet?" says Eames, thumbing Arthur's mouth with one hand, his jeans open with the other. Arthur's eyes are on Eames' face, watching the blood color his cheeks, the way he keeps licking his lips, because Arthur  _knows_  he's been waiting for this, wanting this, just as long as Arthur has.   
  
And then Eames draws out his cock, thick and uncut.  
  
_Fuck_ , yes, Arthur thinks, but aloud he just lets out a laugh that translates to 'how did we even get here?' and by the way the curve of Eames' smile turns loose and affectionate, Arthur thinks he understands.   
  
The desk sways dangerously when he tugs Eames up to kneel over him, but then he's got his hand on the slick, hot length of Eames' shaft and Eames is growling filthy encouragements in his devil's voice. Arthur cradles Eames' cock, strokes it lightly, tracing the foreskin with the pads of his fingers, gathering precome on his fingertip.  
  
"Jesus, look at you," Eames says when Arthur slides his finger between his lips & fastens his eyes dutifully to Eames'. " _Arthur_ . Fuck me, darling, you're exquisite like this." He reaches down and guides his cock over Arthur's mouth, letting the head of it trace the outline of Arthur's lips like he just can't  _help_  himself, like it's too much for him to be out Arthur's reach even for that long. Arthur makes an embarrassing sound he will deny later when Eames' foreskin brushes against his bottom lip, and he reaches up to take Eames inside.  
  
" _Arthur_ ," Eames breathes again. Arthur tilts his head up, wanting to see Eames' face as Arthur takes him in, loving the way the hot silk sheath of Eames' foreskin feels as it slides against his throat. Eames' head drops back and his eyes fall shut, his fingers stroking Arthur's cheek, trailing over his skin and leaving warm imprints like the trail of heat inside Arthur's mouth. Arthur moans. He wants Eames to coax all the embarrassing noises out of him--he feels his face heat at the thought even as he slips his jaw lower, taking Eames in even further. Fuck, Eames wouldn't even have to work, all he'd have to do would be to ask-- Arthur would make noise for him; Arthur would go on his knees for him, Arthur would try to be  _so good_  for him--  
  
Just as he's realizing that his thing about Eames,' well, Eames' everything, goes much deeper than he's ever understood before, Eames says, all in a rush, words tumbling over each other, unsteady and breathless, "Want you to open up for me, pet, just like that,  _god_ , I needed to get inside you, Arthur, you've no idea,  _Arthur_ ," and he sounds so  _wrecked_  that Arthur thinks,  _Oh, shit, it goes both ways_ , and he opens his throat around the hot liquid stretch of Eames' dick and lets Eames fuck him, trying hard not to accidentally communicate, 'I may be completely fucking in love with you,' with his eyes while he takes in the sight of Eames leaning above him, all his powerful muscles flexing under his stupid clothing, sweat pooling all over as he tells Arthur just how he likes it, what a good pet Arthur is, how he knows Arthur can be so good for him, so obedient and so willing, how he'll be so good for Arthur, he'll take such good care of him, just please keep that up, pet, right there, fuck, yes, _yes_ , darling,  _oh_ \--  
  
And Arthur thinks of Eames doing this to him whenever he wants, just pressing him against surfaces and fucking his mouth like it's nothing, like it's just another day, like Arthur is just one more enigma that Eames has inexplicably gained complete mastery over--the dreamscape, human nature, the subconscious, Arthur's body, all his to wander into and out of as he pleases, and Arthur is shuddering and trembling and trying not to arch into Eames' rhythm, and it's so good, he's going to--he wants--  
  
\--and then Eames slips out of Arthur's swollen mouth and Arthur nearly sobs from the loss, already missing the full stretch of Eames inside him, already wanting him so much deeper. Eames shifts away, just far enough to get his hand on Arthur's trousers, over his neglected cock. "Fuck, you've been so good, Arthur, so good for me," he says, tracing the wet stain, his eyes dark and totally blown with arousal. "Come for me, sweetheart, I need you to come."   
  
And with the heel of Eames' palm pressed hard against him, Arthur does. He arches off the desk into the welcome friction of Eames' thighs, and Eames rocks down against him through his orgasm, telling him what a pretty, good pet he is, how beautiful, how obedient, how perfect, how good he is. "Ruining your trousers on command," says Eames, sounding a little awestruck. "You'd do that for me whenever I asked, wouldn't you, darling? You'd let me ruin your trousers and stain your pretty pale face with come whenever I wanted, wouldn't you, sweetheart?"   
  
And before Arthur can do more than signal how very amenable he is to the idea of coming whenever and wherever his Mr Eames requires, Eames reaches down to his own cock, strokes himself once, twice, and comes all over Arthur's sweat-slick face as he rasps Arthur's name, streaking Arthur's lips and his hair, threading hot braids of it over his neck and his waistcoat and probably all over his days' work, too.   
  
Arthur has never felt quite so productive on the job before.  
  
"Darling,  _darling_ ," Eames pants, his voice stuttering as he leans down on trembling forearms--or maybe it's the desk that's shaking, or maybe Arthur--to kiss him, swallowing the catch in Arthur's voice and his inability to do more than shiver and touch Eames' face.  
  
Arthur has no idea how long they stay there, Eames murmuring noises of approval, kissing him, kissing his hair, pushing sweat and come back away from his forehead, laughing as he rubs his nose against Arthur's cheek. Arthur curves in to him, wanting to keep Eames' warmth all to himself for a little longer, already feeling faintly bereft and wondering if everything will be like this now--the sense of lost contact whenever Eames isn't inside of him, a lock without its key.   
  
He wonders if he's always felt like this and just never realized it. He wonders if Eames can read any of this in his face, and then realizes he can't be arsed to care even if he can.  
  
Eames is nosing his way over Arthur's jawline, pressing kisses into his skin. Arthur lies back and tries to come down from the haze that engulfs him, the warm pleasure curling through all his limbs at the look of sheer contentment on Eames' face.  
  
"You were right," he says at last. "I do feel more relaxed."   
  
Eames bites his ear lobe. Arthur swats at his arm, but without heat. They lie there, and Arthur knows they're in a come-smeared heap over all his blueprints, but he'll never care while Eames is trailing a thumb over the contours of his face.   
  
"There's nothing about you that isn't perfect," Eames says--conversationally enough, but his voice is still low, still hoarse from arousal.   
  
Arthur turns and gazes up at him, at his day-old stubble, the dried sand in his eyes, his face still sanguine and his lips swollen and gorgeous.   
  
"Glad you think so," Arthur says dryly.   
  
And he doesn't know what makes him add it--whether it's cheekiness or oxytocins or just sheer sentiment: but he never, ever regrets saying it, solely because of the look on Eames' face when he adds:   
  
"Because there's nothing about me that isn't yours."


End file.
